


Waiting

by nightabsentia



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Apathy, Brief Mention of Christoph and Ulrike, But I Do Believe in Happy Endings, Denial, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional neglect, Growing Apart, M/M, May Be Considered Dub Con, Non-Graphic Death Description of an Animal, Resentment, Sad, mention of religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23645659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightabsentia/pseuds/nightabsentia
Summary: Is he waiting for him? Or is he waiting for himself? Paul makes realizations in the midst of a bad relationship.Contemplations, of self worth, of the will, of strength.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> An idea I've had for years that I finally tried to write. Bad relationships don't get recognized enough, and sometimes they're bad in the most subtle of ways. Warnings in advance for generally shitty behavior in a relationship, justifying said behavior, what might be kinda considered dubcon sex, a respectful and nonviolent description of a deceased animal (NOT abused!), mentions of religion. I deliberately tried avoiding writing this to be shocking/graphic, while still providing perspective on a complex issue.
> 
> I also don't believe Richard's a bad person, by the way. None of this is intended to make digs or offend anybody, I promise, and was written with the best intentions.

While Paul waits, he smokes on the front steps of his apartment building.

Exhaling a heavy lung full, the street lights illuminate the thick smoke that hangs in the air in such a mesmerizing way. In it, he tries to see pictures, the same way that children look in the clouds, trying to find animals or faces. But he’s not a child anymore. He sees nothing. Maybe he’s the kind of adult that he thought he’d never be – boring, with no creativity, no imagination, no passion for anything. Reaching up, he puts his hand through the wisps, trying to twist it, change it, but it does little more than dissipate and it vanishes under the disturbance of the air. 

Twisting his left wrist, he looks at his small silver watch. The face displays what he knows: that Richard is thirty-two minutes late. Which isn’t anything new for him, so it’s not something that comes as a surprise. They didn’t exactly have anything scheduled that is tied to a time table, but Paul likes having as much time with him as he can before falling asleep. Aside from that, Paul likes punctuality. Richard’s heard it before from him but he always finds himself running behind when it’s his turn to come to Paul’s apartment. Maybe it’s just a quirk to be lived with, no matter how frustrating. But Paul knows there was a point in time where there was never a minute squandered between them, and he could count on him without a doubt.

A woman’s laughter echoing up the street grabs Paul’s passive interest. Raising the cigarette to his lips once more, he looks. A tall man and an almost as tall woman are walking his direction, hand in hand, and he recognizes them. He doesn’t know their names, but he’s seen them individually while getting his mail and doing laundry, and interacted with them in polite greetings, though not together. Paul had not known previously they were a couple, but now that he does, he thinks they look nice together.

As they approach, he looks away, not wanting to stare when they will notice and be rude, to look instead at his shoes. The frayed ends of his laces, the scum on the whites of his soles. As they make their way up the stairs, Paul feels as though he has half a mind to reach his leg out and trip her, make her scuff her hands and rip that beautiful blue dress that brushes his arm as they ascend towards him, and ruin their perfect date night. But he doesn’t do that; the woman’s long gown brushes his arm as they pass him. Even if he’s having a bad night doesn’t mean he should inflict that upon others. He’s not that embittered by the world yet, but the evidence exists in his thoughts alone that perhaps he’s close. Paul flicks his gaze up towards them when they reach the door of the building, taking another pull off of his cigarette. 

“But what I’m really trying to say is that it was amazing. I loved it. Thank you so much,” the woman says, her voice light and cheery, pulling him closer and nuzzling into her man’s arm. She’s beautiful, Paul thinks, with big beautiful eyes and the fullest lips that could’ve defined joy themselves in the way they part into a smile. As though she’s never felt a day of sadness in her life. It occurs to Paul that he doesn’t actually remember the last time he genuinely smiled or laughed at something.

The man leans down and places two simple kisses, one to her forehead, the next to her lips, which they both smile into. Paul is the type of take pleasure in these simple, pure instances of life – of hummingbirds buzzing near flowers, of the sounds of children playing in the park. Tonight, it fails to do anything more than deepen the weight of the disappointment that he’s begun to feel creeping into his heart. There was a time where he and Richard used to be much the same as them – carefree, and genuinely happy.

“Of course. You know I’d do anything for you,” comes the man, accompanied by the jingling of keys coming out of his pocket to get themselves into the building. Gazing lovingly down at his woman, he leans into her and whispers softly, “You know, Ulrike, if you’re not careful, I may just marry you.”

“Oh no, I hope you don’t, Christoph,” she says, voice laden with sarcasm, playing it up with a hand reaching to clutch at the necklace draped over her chest, and laughs over the sound of the door unlocking and opening. “Because I might just marry you too.”

Then they step inside, the door shutting behind them, leaving Paul alone once again with his half-smoked cigarette, the empty Berlin street, and the passage of time. The temperature is lovely outside, requiring only a sweatshirt, and the air is fresh and crisp, and the bugs chirp in a discordant harmony – a few of the millions of things that he loves about this city. He’s done plenty of traveling in his life, having made seeing the world a priority, and he’s never found a city that could ever compare – his safe haven, his promised land. While he’d be more than happy to stay and indulge in these small joys, he’s getting tired. Tired of waiting, of watching the street to wait for Richard to walk up, of the uncertainty that he feels. About everything.

Extinguishing his cigarette against the concrete of the stairs, he pockets the butt to throw away later. Paul brings his watch up to look at it again. Fifty minutes late. With a low hum, he contemplates this, but it takes very little for him to resolve that he’d rather sit inside and wait. Maybe Richard has called him and can explain what’s kept him for so long. Or, more likely, Richard hasn’t called at all, and will offer Paul his excuses about what happened. Whatever excuse it will be though, Paul is certain that he’s fallen asleep or gone to hang out with Ollie instead. Richard’s a good liar when he spins up excuses about feeling sick or being tied up with work, and would be convincing if Paul didn’t know any better. It’s hard to know when to rely on him sometimes – sometimes you win, and sometimes you don’t. It would be much easier if he was consistent in one way or another, so that Paul could figure out how to feel.

Entering into his building, he makes his way back to his apartment, and toes his shoes off in the darkness of his living room. He unzips his sweatshirt and drapes it over the back of the couch, and he prepares himself for what he knows he won’t find. Fiddling with his keys nervously in his hand, he goes over to his phone and checks the answering machine. Yet the automated voice of the woman informs him that he has no new messages. 

He’s not coming. Whatever. His heart clenches. Tears sting at his eyes, but he blinks them away, determined to just get over it. It comes with the territory of dating him. He’s not sure he’ll find anyone better, as good as Richard is, so it’s tolerable. Kinda. Either way, Paul will forget about it until the next time he does it again. When or if he calls in the morning, Paul will be his usual chirpy self, having forgotten about the heartache. Richard will apologize, tell him he loves him, bring him to dinner, invite him over and watch a movie, and everything will be okay again. Paul is a forgiving person, especially for this man whom he adores with every fiber of his being. He can’t stay mad at him for too long. That’s just simply the way they operate now. He knows that Richard cares about him, even if sometimes he’s not the best at showing it. 

It’s getting late. With or without Richard, he’s ready to settle down for the night. Making his way to his bedroom, he turns on the bedside table light and sheds himself of his day clothes, throwing them in his dirty laundry bin, leaving himself in his boxer briefs and a tank top. He unlatches his watch and sets it down on his dresser, next to his wallet and his cologne.

A row of books is lined up underneath the mirror, with a music box as a present from his friend Ariel acting as one bookend (though because Richard doesn’t like Ariel, he tells him that he got it at a thrift store), and a glass jar of coins, some European, some not, acting as the other. Paul was once a voracious reader and was a frequent visitor of the library a ten minute’s walking distance from his apartment. He stopped around the time that Richard came into his life. Though he’s not sure there’s a connection. He also started a new job around that time that preoccupied him. Maybe it was a combination of the two things. Maybe Paul just stopped caring of his own accord. People fall out of love with their previous obsessions all the time.

There’s one thin volume, bound in thick red paper. The title, accompanied by the subtitle _poems,_ embossed in an elegant golden cursive stand alone on the cover – a simple, unassuming book that would’ve been easily missed. But Paul found it on sale, and thought it to be charming, and so it was a mindless purchase he’d made with the intention of looking through it. He’s not too terribly tired, and figures it a way to wind down the night. 

Bringing it with him to bed, he peels back his covers and settles in, propping himself up with some pillows. He flips to a page in the middle of the book and scans the first poem he finds – a simple five lines about the moon and the sun. It’s nice, but it doesn’t work to capture Paul’s attention in any meaningful way. He flips the page. This time, a poem about the comings of spring. This one he finds more enjoyable, with vivid descriptions and beautiful metaphors that he’d not considered before. The poetry is easily digestible, keeps Paul’s attention well enough, and is somewhat entertaining. He’s content. He flips the page once more and continues reading.

He reads the next poem. He continues to the next poem and the next, until his eyes grow too heavy to keep reading, and he places the book in the poignantly empty space next to him in bed, turns off the light, and falls asleep. If he were honest, he’d admit that for awhile, he lies awake in the darkness, hoping to hear the phone ring. Even though his rational mind knows that he won’t.

Richard does not call that night.

-

Rhythm and sound. Roaming hands and hot breath.

Richard plants an elbow next to Paul’s head and kisses the place where his neck curves into his shoulder, and Paul can’t put one cohesive thought together. He’s reduced to a body taking in sensation, every single touch devastatingly electric, with each thrust of Richard’s hips driving down into him, with each pursing of his lips against the sensitive skin of his throat.

With Paul’s fingers clawing into Richard’s shoulder blades, he lifts his legs to drape them around the other man’s waist, hooking his ankles at the small of his back. Paul nudges against Richard’s face with his own, and gently guides him from his neck to his lips. Between languid, wet, kisses, they breathe hotly and heavily between them. Richard will sometimes hit just the right spot, that has a gasp or a moan falling out of Paul’s mouth, and goddamn, it’s been awhile since it’s been this good.

Paul’s hand falls from Richard’s back to reach between them to grasp at himself, twisting and pulling at his cock without any kind of consistency, just enjoying the feeling without trying to get himself to the finish line. It occurs to him that it would feel even better if he was cared for under his lover’s hand. 

Pressing a firm, hard kiss to Richard’s lips, Paul pulls back to whisper into his ear. “Can you touch me?”

Richard hesitates in a way that Paul can tell – he begins to move a bit slower and pulls away to leer over him and look into Paul’s face. It’s clear by the recoil in his partner’s expression that he really shouldn’t have asked, because he wasn’t going to like the answer, confirmed by the reply that accompanies it. “I was really close to finishing. Can I do you after?”

Paul says “Yes,” but he knows that once Richard is done, they are both done. Richard will roll off him and make an excuse of some sort or another. If he doesn’t say yes then and there, it doesn’t happen. That’s been the pattern more and more lately. Maybe he should’ve asked earlier, but it wouldn’t have been a guarantee that he would’ve gotten help anyway. These are the calculated risks of sex with Richard, in that sometimes Paul gets what he wants, and sometimes Paul doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t a little bit more of the time than otherwise. Seems that this night is one of the nights that he gets left hanging again. At least Richard is getting something out of this, however, Paul reasons to himself. If Richard can find satisfaction in this, then it may very well be worth it. Dropping his hand away, he decides to stop trying. 

It doesn’t take much. Richard increases his pace, pounding into Paul, but the pleasure doesn’t seem to register anymore, instead being replaced with his discontent. He doesn’t even know why he bothers sometimes. Being rejected just makes him feel so devastatingly awful about himself – why not just keep his wants and needs to himself so that he doesn’t have to be let down later? He thinks he’s finally starting to learn his lesson, and next time he won’t say anything. As the negativity comes over him, suffocating him, he almost would tell him to stop. But he doesn’t. It’s easier this way; without the withdrawal of affection and the guilt tripping that would be guaranteed to come after. So he elects to say nothing, as always. His legs fall away, his hands clutch at his comforter. 

In the dim glow of the lamplight, past Richard’s shoulder, the uneven finish of the ceiling is illuminated. The rough surface throws shadows, like the surface of the moon, that he’s looked at thousands of times as he’s tried to go to sleep. Once, on a particularly restless night, he’d stood up on his own bed, and reached as high as he could, to touch it with his fingertips. No reason; human beings are known to act mindlessly from time to time. He touched all of the mounds and bumps he could reach, imagining that he could find secret messages in braille unknown to him. It was a strange concept that occurred to him then, that he was touching the floor of the apartment above him, where someone was living their life, and Paul would never know what it was that they were doing or who they were. Though they were separated by the thinnest of materials, he’d never be able to reach through and touch that other person’s reality.

A particularly jagged edge had sliced through his ring finger, and between his shock of how drywall could cut him like that, and the blood pooling up on the surface of his skin, he rinsed it off and bandaged it before assuredly falling asleep that night.

Richard finishes with one last, hard thrust, shooting his load into the condom, and Paul’s not sure if this is what love is supposed to feel like or not. There used to be love that he could feel so deeply and achingly in his bones. Things were once good. Where Paul could laugh for hours on end, where they’d go out and experience new places and things together – seeing movies, going to museums, wandering the city streets of a town they’d never been to before on a weekend trip. They’d fuck three times into the wee hours of the morning and Richard couldn’t seem to keep his hands off of Paul. What happened to that? Paul had always tried to be good, but maybe he wasn’t as good as he’d thought. But he’s trying as hard as he can – to always be there, to be understanding, to be kind. Maybe he will never be good enough, and Richard pities him enough to stay. That must be what it is.

Soon thereafter, Richard gets off of Paul without so much as a parting caress and stands. Paul sits up to watch him. His next moves seem thought out; it seems like the escape of a dog chewing it’s arm out of a bear trap when Richard pulls the condom off, ties the end and throws it in the garbage and instantly starts scraping together both his clothes and his excuses. Paul loves being held, but Richard doesn’t, and Paul knows better than to ask with the possibility of further rejection, not wanting to add more disappointment than there already is. Ollie and he are supposed to hang out tomorrow, and it’s getting awfully late, though it was awfully late when Richard initiated what he’d just finished. Oh, okay. No problem. Understood. It must be a matter of ten minutes before Richard is decent once more, planting a chaste kiss on Paul’s lips along with a whispered ‘I love you,’ and leaving him there, sitting naked on his bed. 

In the silence of his apartment, his ears begin to ring, filling the empty air. He wants to get up and take a shower. He wants to go get some water. He wants to cry. He’s too tired to do all of it. All he can do is lie back down again, feeling empty and oh so utterly alone. Gathering the blankets, he curls them into himself. Once the sheets have absorbed some of his body heat, it’s the closest thing he can get to holding something that won’t run away.

His eyes fixate on the ceiling once more, and that darkened spot of blood. It’s so small that anybody else would miss it (how often do people actually look up at ceilings, anyway?), but Paul can find it without trouble. Nobody’s ever said anything, and he’s never pointed it out; it’s an unimportant secret, one with no consequence, but he holds it to himself nonetheless. There’s something enjoyable about these private indulgences. 

Paul has no plans on cleaning it. When he moves out, he will take everything with him, furniture, clothes – save for that small red stain. Then the apartment will move on to some other tenant – a student, newlyweds, a retiree – never knowing about the small trace that Paul will leave behind. A secret speck of memory for the walls to hold. Perhaps nobody will ever notice and it will stay there until the building falls apart, or perhaps somebody will do a thorough spring cleaning and wipe him away. Even if it’s a silly insignificant wish, Paul almost hopes that it stays rooted there forever. Proof of his existence long after he’s gone. A small impact made, even if in a way of no importance. It’s a nice, if not slightly weird thought. Sometimes, Paul has quite a few of those. 

The ringing in his ears persists, and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath in, and then out.

-

While Paul waits, he can’t help but notice the beautiful flowers that are planted next to where he sits on the bench.

They’re of a brilliant golden radiance, and they brighten the area they’re in despite the darkness of night that surrounds them. Paul can’t say he’s particularly good with knowing his flowers, but they look a bit like marigolds. Though the shape may be a little bit off. With that, he tentatively concludes that they must be carnations, without any conviction in his assessment, because he’d only ever thought that carnations came only in pink, and not yellow. Either way, he’s willing to be wrong. 

What takes him a moment longer to catch his eye is the iridescent feathers of a black bird tucked at the edge of the bush of flowers, which he judges to be either a crow or a raven. If there is a difference. Paul isn’t that good with his birds either. It would be so easy to miss with only the gentle spotlights of the restaurant cutting through the pitch Berlin night, but with only time on his hands to visually trace the cracks in the sidewalk and to count discarded cigarette butts, it was certain to be found by him eventually. 

Even if he cannot distinguish what type of bird it is, it is most clear to him that the bird is deceased. Laying on its back, wings stretched out, feet curled in. The creature hasn’t moved in the time Paul has spent looking at it, and he’s certain that if it were alive, it would’ve been spooked by all of the people walking around it eventually. 

Lifting himself off of the bench, he crouches and faces into the bush, looking upon the bird – how magnificent the feathers are, at one moment blue, at another green, illusions buried in the inky front. Paul almost expects it to have been pretending all along – for how could something so delicate and wonderful as this creature actually die – to flip over and to start flapping its wings and caw at him to get him to back off, but it doesn’t. He hopes that the bird wasn’t in pain and is safe now wherever it went to, if souls go anywhere. At the very least, he hopes that there’s somewhere for everyone to go, somewhere it’s beautiful and there is no more pain. For all of the things that this life puts all living beings through, he thinks that it’s something deserved. Paul had been once more connected with his spirituality, but it’s just another thing that has fallen by the wayside for him. Not intentionally. Other things took its place. Richard wouldn’t want to go to church with him anyway if he decided to go back. He’s made that abundantly clear in just hearing his opinions about it.

Taking advantage of the bush of flowers, he plucks them, one by one, delicately placing them around the wings, the tail, the head, forming an outline of the body of the bird. Once he’s satisfied with that, he plucks three more, and lays them in a small pile on the creature’s breast. He would’ve preferred if there had been more variety in the flowers, like lavender or daisies, so he could surround it in more color and more beauty, but this will do. Paul deems it a sufficient funeral arrangement for this bird and is satisfied in knowing that he showed it a little bit of dignity. Everyone deserves to be recognized, to be known, to be loved, to be missed. To be remembered. To know that they mattered, in some way or another, even if just for Paul, it was its beauty in death that captured his heart and enraptured him most. 

“Paul?”

Richard’s voice startles him, and Paul jumps up out of his crouch to greet him with his voice and with a kiss that his lover returns to him. Though he seems a tad more preoccupied with figuring out what Paul was doing in the moments preceding his arrival, before they can start their date.

“What were you up to?” Richard questions, looking down over the place where Paul had just been moments before.

Gesturing to funeral mound, Paul explains. “I saw it lying there and I thought I’d pay it my respects.” 

Richard cracks a smile and shakes his head a little, looking at Paul in a loving, if chagrinned way. The way a parent looks at a child who made a silly mistake unwarranted of punishment. Perhaps he should’ve known to keep his mouth shut. Maybe he should’ve said he found it that way, because he has a feeling that he knows what Richard’s going to say next.

“That’s nice that you did that. Too bad it didn’t make a difference to that bird. Someone will find it and throw it out sooner or later,” Richard tells him matter of factly, his voice firm and face steeled. The words themselves are cruel but the execution in which they’re portrayed is so schooled, that it comes across more as a constructive criticism instead of an admonishment. But it doesn’t stop Paul from feeling like he did something wrong.

Paul suddenly finds himself somewhat embarrassed that he did this in the face of Richard’s criticism, even though he knows that it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Showing love and compassion is not a character flaw, he thinks, but he doesn’t want to voice it. He doesn’t want to argue tonight. Richard may have a point, that it was time used that could’ve been put towards something else, though he wonders what it could’ve possibly been used for other than losing body heat to the metal rungs of the bench. And he agrees, that it didn’t make a difference to that bird, for it would never know the kindness bestowed upon it, but it was not a loss to Paul, because it meant something to him. It meant something in his heart, and his spirit, without the expectation of reward. The gain was to be found in the love bestowed upon that creature.

As Richard wraps his arm around Paul and guides him into the restaurant, he wishes that he could see that.

-

“It’s not my favorite look for you, but as long as you like it, it’s fine, I guess,” Richard says, shoving his hands into his pockets and shrugging. Which conveys that it’s anything but fine by him.

“What’s wrong with it? I think it’s neat!” He smiles, hoping that his enthusiasm for it could change Richard’s mind, rotating himself to offer Richard a better view of how it looks on him, adding in a waggling of his eyebrows. However, it doesn’t seem to affect his opinion. 

“Hmm. I mean. I don’t know. It’s just ugly, and you really need all the help that you can get, Paul,” his lover says with a sneer thick in his voice and on his face, his lip curled in a way to convey his clear displeasure with Paul’s choice of clothing.

Oh. Paul thought this sweater was nice, black with thin lines of alternating cerulean and gold. He liked the colors, at the very least, and also found some good humor in the retro style that had long since passed. He was hoping that Richard would like it, and maybe find the entertainment in it, too. Richard seemed to hate lots of things. The book Paul had been flipping through in the bookstore they’d visited shortly before the vintage shop had seemed too pretentious in its subject material, and the furniture in the window they’d passed by before that had been too gaudy. Nothing much seems to satisfy him, particularly when Paul enjoys them. But Richard has very good taste. Paul resolves to himself that his interests are probably lesser. Richard usually knows better.

Heaving a sigh, he rips the sweater off over his head. Tears prick at his eyes but he won’t cry in front of Richard. Richard hates it when he does, because it makes him feel like a bad person. Understandably so – Paul wouldn’t want to feel that way. And Richard’s not a bad person. But Paul really would’ve bought that sweater if Richard hadn’t put it down. He finds the hanger it goes on and slips it back into place, and then mournfully puts it on the rack once more. Pity. 

“Would you mind if I took a smoke while you finished looking around?” Richard asks.

“Not at all,” Paul tells him.

Thereafter, Richard stalks out, and leaves Paul alone in the shop. The corners of his eyes are a little wet, and he touches his fingertips at them to dry. He tries to collect himself, to recover, but he doesn’t know why Richard has been making this day so hard when he’s tried to make it a good one. Paul knows he’s not good enough for Richard, but he’s trying so hard to be. He wants to make Richard happy, because Richard makes Paul happy when he can. 

A tall man, with black hair, and a steady set of soft rounded blue eyes, who Paul had noticed before looking at old vintage post cards, walks up towards him.

“Hey,” the man starts, and Paul rips his hand away from his face, hoping to convey that he was actually doing alright, and looks up towards him. “Your friend is kind of an asshole talking to you like that. If a stranger’s opinion means anything, I think that sweater looked very good on you.” 

He finds himself surprised. That someone went out of their way to come over and compliment him means something to him. This man didn’t have to do it, but he did it of his own volition, and likely because he actually means it. “Oh, thank you.” There’s a part of him that wants to defend Richard; he’s not an asshole, he’s just an opinionated, complex person who isn’t afraid to speak his mind. Yet the thought to advocate for him dies before it ever gets spoken out loud. Yeah. Maybe he was being a little mean. Maybe he was.

The stranger continues, saying, “I’m serious. Don’t let him make you leave that behind if you like it.” 

The hesitation must be clear within him, as Paul looks at the piece of clothing on the rack, furrowing his brow in his contemplation, his hands balling up into loose fists. While he’d like to, he’s not sure he’s ready to hear the criticism on the sweater for the rest of his life, when he’s wearing it or washing it or putting it away. God knows that he’ll try to wear it out and Richard will comment on how he has to be seen with him looking so horrendous. Which he’s done before. There’s some clothes that Paul can’t wear anymore that he misses. 

“Would you stop me if I bought it for you?” the other man presses with a quirk of an eyebrow, reaching out to pick up the article. “Would it be different if it was a gift? I know that I personally can’t turn down gifts,” he goes on, with a sly smile spreading across his lips, a light tease in his voice and his features. He wants to tell him no, that he’s fine, really (and why is he doing this for him, he doesn’t even know him), and yet, this man is being so nice. Though he can’t help but feel bad that he’s allowing this stranger to pity him in the way he is. Because he doesn’t deserve pity. What happened between him and Richard is normal. This man just doesn’t get their relationship. There’s nothing for him to feel bad for him about.

Without a clear answer of yes or no from Paul, the man takes a couple of strides towards the cashier, setting it on the counter before pulling out his wallet. A small panic rises in him, and his shame and denial are what causes Paul to step next to him to join him _because he doesn’t need sympathy, goddamn it, he’s fine._

“Wait, you don’t have to –“ Paul tries, but a blue euro banknote is passed over to the cashier despite the protests, with the thought that probably despite what he says, this man will not be deterred. Which makes him panic a little more. “I’m fine, I swear to God, I’m fine, really,” he pleads, offering an attempt at a smile, betrayed by a furrowed brow that could be construed to mean the opposite. Because he is. Fine. Really. Even if Richard has been hurting his feelings all day. That’s just the way they work. Sometimes things are good and sometimes they aren’t. That’s how all couples are. 

“Before I came over, you were trying not to cry because your friend was being a dick,” the stranger tells him, giving him a pointed look as he holds out his hand and accepts his change to swiftly shove it into his back pocket. Shortly thereafter he takes a pen, and then scribbles on his receipt for a few moments, while Paul watches on feeling a tad helpless. “I want to do a nice thing. Good karma and all that. I know I'd want someone to do it for me.”

Taking the sweater off the counter, he tucks the receipt in one of the pockets, folds it, and holds the bundle out towards the clearly shaken Paul. A silent insistence that he take it is present in the way he raises his eyebrows, and meeting his eyes, expectant. There’s an implication that exists that crosses his mind. In accepting this gift, he has to acknowledge that he is deserving of a nice thing. That he’s deserving of the sympathy, as judged by this stranger. That there’s a reason why this is happening.

Paul reaches out and accepts the article of clothing hesitantly, but gratefully. “Thank you,” he mumbles, averting his gaze. He feels so embarrassed, not because of what this stranger had done for him, but the recognition that the man had felt of something not being right. Does that mean there’s something actually wrong? 

“It’s no problem. None at all,” the stranger says. “Take care of yourself.” With that, he nods to Paul, and then paces past him and out the door, turning left onto the street, passing in front of Richard, who throws his cigarette butt down and grinds it into the pavement with his heel. Paul follows the stranger with his gaze until he disappears past the edge of the storefront windows, clutching the sweater in his hands. Is the way that Richard treats him bad enough for others to step in and intervene? It occurs to Paul that this man didn’t even assume that they’re dating, instead just calling him a friend – does the opinion hold more weight then? That he’s a bad friend at best and probably not even suitable to be a lover at worst?

It also occurs to Paul that when he steps outside, that he’s going to have to defend what he holds in his arms.

When did things get bad like this?

-

While Paul waits, he feels his nerves and his patience wearing thin.

Late again, it seems. As sure as the sun rises in the morning and falls in the evening, Richard is late again. 

It’s getting colder every day, and the threat of a snow falling over Berlin looms in the next week’s forecast. Though it never seems to stay, melting the moment it touches ground. Paul likes it that way: getting the benefits of snow, such as its beauty, while avoiding the downsides, such as its tendency to cause transport delays or slipping. One of the many privileges of his city. He's lucky, truly.

The chill doesn’t get to him in this sweater, which insulates him perfectly. Richard be damned. Though he’s going to take it off when he arrives. If he arrives. So that he doesn't have to hear it when Richard sees it again. He already heard it after he bought it - that it's old, and wasn't worth the price, and truly horribly hideous - and he's not keen on hearing it again. He’s glad he didn’t let it go, though. He’s glad he didn’t stop that man from buying it. It may have taken a couple weeks for him to build up the confidence to wear it, even just for a little while on this one occasion thus far, but he’s happy with it.

While Paul waits, he’s keen to enjoy a cigarette in the meantime. He anticipates finding them stuffed in the back right pocket of his jeans, but when he leans over, the pack is absent. Upon checking the left pocket, he finds much the same.

Oh, he forgot. He’s wearing a new sweater, and it comes with pockets – maybe he switched it up this time and did them in there without thinking. Putting his hands in both, in search of his elusive vice, he doesn’t feel them, but he does feel something else, aside from his keys. His left hand grips what’s in the pocket and pulls it out.

It’s the receipt. Printed on that smooth, glossy type of paper, with the store name heading the top and ending with the final total and change given. In the back of his memory, he does recall that man writing on it, and so following his instinct, he turns it over to find what had been left there.

 _you looked great, i swear! find better people in your life – don’t wait around for the bad ones to treat you better. feel free to call me if you need someone. i’ve been there. Till._ His number is scrawled at the bottom of the paper. 

Paul, for the first time in awhile, doesn’t cry because he’s upset, but because he’s honestly touched that this man, well, Till, had been so kind and thoughtful towards somebody that he didn’t know. Till’s actions then had been confounding and rattling to Paul, and he hadn’t forgotten them, thinking about the interaction over and over in his mind. The things that he’d thought of even then still turned in his conscience every waking moment. 

He was reluctant to admit it, so goddamn reluctant, but it was the truth: this is a bad relationship. He’d started figured it out then, and he’s starting to come to terms with it now. Though perhaps he’d always known. Maybe he just needed a little bit of help seeing it. In realizing that it was a real problem. The way that Till treated him; that’s how people should be towards people that they care for. Being concerned for their wellbeing. Richard’s countenance is not one of someone who loves, or at the very least cares, Paul realizes.

Till wrote that he shouldn’t wait for bad people to become better.

Paul’s been waiting for what seems like forever.

Has he really been waiting for Richard all of this time? To love him, to respect him, to show him an ounce of indication that Paul is someone of even his basic concern? Or has he been waiting for himself? Waiting for himself to realize that he shouldn’t life a life half-loved, waiting for himself to realize that he deserves better?

Paul has wasted his entire life waiting, it feels like, in occupying a physical space, to even just in his thoughts wondering if or when Richard will come around. His lover’s absence in both respects is killing him. Wasting his life as the seconds tick tick tick away, for someone who may not really be worth it. Who criticizes his ideas, his dreams, his interests, the small facets of who he is. Stripping himself of who he is to become someone that another person wouldn’t even love anyway. Who couldn’t even be trusted to drop by and leave flowers if Paul were to wither and die on this staircase tonight. 

No. This isn’t worth it. None of this is worth it. Till was right. 

Maybe he should give him a call. He seemed nice enough, with the possibility of being a genuine type of person exemplified in their short interaction those couple of weeks ago. Though to be fair, his standards and expectations are easy to meet in comparison to what he’s known recently.

Standing up, he unlocks the door to enter his building, and the door slams behind him. He goes up two flights of stairs, down a ways into the hallway of his floor, until he finds his door. He enters, and makes sure to secure the deadbolt once he’s inside. 

He’s tired. He’s going to bed. He’s tired of waiting.

Eventually he collapses in bed, and the years of everything that had built up come rushing out, and he can’t stop crying, and he can hardly breathe, but he’s beginning to feel like he can be okay. Like things can be okay. Things will be okay. Because he knows that he doesn't have to wait anymore. Before he knows it or even realizes it, he’s fallen asleep, not even concerned about the potential of the telephone ringing in the night.

This night, Richard comes. Though he’s surprised not to see Paul waiting outside to let him in his building. Sometimes he does that. Pansies out and is too lazy to wait for him. No trouble though, as a beautiful tall brunette woman comes at around the same time he does, and recognizes him well enough to trust allowing him in. 

He easily finds Paul’s door, and he knocks. He knocks. And he waits for Paul to come get him.

After all of this time, he finally came. 

But he will not be answered.

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments even if it's just keyboard smashing ;_;


End file.
